The Measure of Uruk

“I have come to see the prince.”

It was not yet dawn when the cowled woman uttered those words before the golden dome of the city’s outer walls. She had no identification, no appointment, and the city’s robust array of cameras and sensors could make no sense of her unfathomable biology, but the man working the gate that day felt somewhere deep in his heart that he must let her through. More precisely, he felt that if he refused she would have found another way in, exploiting some crack in the city’s otherwise infallible security systems.

She passed through each checkpoint with flying colors. Of course she would; the idea that her body could be corrupted by some wild contagion was laughable, and as for weapons she never carried anything beyond a thin aluminum cane she had picked up on a similar errand some years ago.

Once inside the walls she came to a spacious plaza. A few stalls were still being set up, and she knew more would follow as the day progressed. An artificial dawn came through an array of lights moving slowly along the domed ceiling of the city giving the plaza a pleasant—if hollow—affect. She sat there for a time and watched the people file in, some from deeper inside the city and others from the gate she herself had just entered from. There were children too, playing a game with a ball and some sticks she that resembled one she had once seen played long ago in a different city.

She had visited many cities, many towns, villages, nations, empires. There were too many for her to remember them all. It was easier to just call them all “the city” or, if a name was for some reason required, to call them Uruk or Carthage or by some other forgotten name, as though each were only a replica of the last.

She decided that this city was an Uruk, and it was as familiar to her as any other, despite having never before visited this particular incarnation. She mapped her memories of previous cities, of precious Uruks, so that the fear of becoming lost in the repeating lattice of streets and alleyways never once entered into her mind. She meandered of course, taking in what sights and sounds she could, but they were the deliberate and purposeful detours of someone who knew exactly where they needed to be.

It wasn’t until the ceiling lights moved into their noontime configuration, she decided to end her explorations and went to the palace. It was a magnificent structure; all silver and gold and glimmering under the lights. She climbed the steps leading to the front door and met with the doorman, who asked her why she had come.

“I have come to see the prince,” was all she needed to say.

Not a moment passed before the doorman reached for a call button and summoned a well-dressed servant, ushered her through a side door and brought her to the prince’s office. The servant found himself unable to think of the proper title with which to announce her, so instead she brushed him aside and let her grim appearance speak for itself.

The prince recognized her immediately and his heart filled with dread. Minutes passed in silence before he found it in himself to speak.

The words came out shaken and uneven. “My-my lady, you honor us with your… with your presence.”

He did well, she thought. She had seen many others in his position crumble at the sight of her, so for him to stand and speak was a feat in and of itself. That he spoke with due reverence as well was also something to be commended. Unfortunately, that was a courtesy she could not extend.

“It is no honor,” she said. “I am here once more to condemn you. Your walls, which you built with the express purpose of keeping me at bay, have stood for too long. Your people have forgotten me, and so in one years time Uruk will fall and your people will be slaughtered.”

“You have given this warning before. Each of your comings has been recorded and passed down by those who survived. If our fate was as sure as you suggest, that would not be possible. Tell me: what must I do to save my people?”

She laughed. “And you have asked this question before, though it was not you yourself who asked it last. The answer is the same as it has always been, boy. Bring your walls down of your own accord. Build new cities if you must, but let them be lesser than this one. Welcome me into them and your people will not only survive: they will thrive.”

“But where would we go?” the prince asked. “We are at war with our neighbors on one side, and our allies on the other suffer from a terrible famine, which I suspect to be your doing.”

“I don’t care where you go. Go into the woods and treat with the beasts that dwell there if you can. If you can’t, build ships and test yourselves once more against the unbroken firmament. Better yet, bite back that pride building in your throat and go to your enemies. Perhaps they will be more merciful to you than you are to them.”

With that she turned and left the prince to think on her words. He would of course ignore her advice, turning instead to his advisors and their learning machines. These machines—which networked invisibly across the city—would insist with their usual confidence that there was nothing in this world that could remotely threaten the city’s walls. By this time tomorrow the prince will have forgotten all about today’s encounter, only recalling it in the fragmented dreams that would haunt his restless sleep.

The shadows had been made long by the time she returned to the plaza by the gate. The people who had come in the morning now began to leave, as if the whole scene was a recording being played in reverse. The children she had seen earlier had left, leaving behind only one of their number.

The boy was sitting on a bench on the far side of the plaza and held a ruddy hand to his cheek. She guessed he had fallen and cut himself something, perhaps an overturned stone, and that had brought an end to the day’s play. He looked at her, and did not flinch as others did. She found this curious.

She made a show of dropping her cane and the boy, seeing that she was alone with no one to help her, rushed to picked it up and handed it back to her.

“Thank you,” she said warmly. “What’s your name?”

The boy told her.

“An honest name for an honest boy. Should I tell you mine?”

With her free hand she removed her cowl and showed him her face. It was void, empty and eternal. In the center burned a flame stronger than any found in all the word. She touched her fingers to his cheek. The bleeding stopped, and new skin knitted itself into a handsome scar. Then she whispered in a voice he could barely hear, though he would remember it for as long as he lived (which by her blessing would be for a long, long time).

The words she spoke were these: “I am the Sun.”